Welcome to WIP Wednesday.
This week I’m picking up where I left off in my newest, yet untitled, WIP. I think it’s going to be a short novel, but we’ll see. The overall story is still assembling in my head. I’m clearly a panster, and I’m fine with that. Stories lead me where they will, and I seldom say no to their direction.
This new work is set in the Revolutionary War era and the years thereafter, specifically in Northeast Tennessee where the rest of the Appalachian Elementals series is set. Yes, this will be a work of Historical Paranormal Fantasy… just when I thought my sub-genre could get no smaller. This, however, looks to be an interesting romp through history even with all the research I’m having to do. (Note: Having a sibling who’s well versed in local history as part of her job helps a whole lot!)
Note: The first paragraph, in orange, comes from last week’s WIPpet.
Note: This WIPpet mentions neighboring farms where there are enslaved people. This was a sad fact of the Revolutionary War era, even along the frontier, which Northeast Tennessee was during that time. I’m in no way reflecting on it in a positive light.
“We’re going to be late for dinner if we don’t hurry.” Conall pulls back his tricorn to smooth his hair, which has been slicked back and tied with a blue satin ribbon. He looks foppish, but I don’t dare tell him.
“I don’t want to go to Widow Alcott’s again.” Her farm’s just down the road, but I loathe going there. It isn’t the food. Widow Alcott, or rather, Mary, is a wonderful cook, but Mary doesn’t cook out of the goodness of her heart. She and her son, Davy, are Widow Alcott’s slaves, and I don’t cotton one bit to someone owning someone else no matter what color their skin is. “I’d druther eat boiled eggs and beans.”
“Good heavens, you’ll stink worse than a hog lot if you do, and I sleep downwind of you.” Conall puts his tricorn back on his head and smooths down his waistcoat. “Come on. Get cleaned up. She’s killed a pullet for us.”
“You mean Mary has.” I know Conall disapproves of slavery as much as I do, but they’re on both sides of the smallholder we work. We’re the odd ones, I suppose, but I’m fine with it. Master Gow won’t own slaves. He’s made that readily clear, but he’s not a Quaker either. More of an abolitionist, I suppose, but I’ve no idea of his religious leanings, and I don’t dare ask because that’s solely between him and his version of God. “Can I eat in the kitchen again?”
“No! You’ll dine like a civilized adult.” Conall’s getting mad at me so I jump from the tree to stand before him. I’m barely to his chest; that’s why he calls me Nub most times.
“I’ll go wash then.”
Nub’s opinionated, isn’t he? And he’s a smart mouth too. He’s not one to easily take direction, especially for someone in his position. It’s a good thing Conall considers him a good friend.